“It’s all right, baby. I have you.” He made sure she was settled in a comfortable position, then took them straight to the kitchen using hover mode—he couldn’t push the chair with one arm holding her tight against him. He could’ve shifted her to the sofa on his way past, but his muscles were rigid, his chest a drum. Feeling the warm puffs of her breath on his skin—he needed that.

Needed to have her alive and breathing, his 3K who’d always been a fighter.

Grabbing a bottle of nutrients, he twisted it open, then poured the thick liquid into a glass, all the while aware of her living warmth. Payal was considerably lighter than him, but she also had a lot more softness to her—a cushion of curves that might’ve distracted had he not been so worried about the sluggish nature of her pulse.

Cupping the back of her head, he put the edge of the glass to her lips. “Payal, you need this.” He made his voice a harsh order. “Can you drink?”

She lifted her hands, but they were weak and barely touched the glass before sliding off. But she was swallowing, so sip by sip, he got the whole glass into her. When she laid her head back down against his shoulder afterward, he didn’t try to repeat his success. The first glass should be enough to give her a boost.

Moving them out of the kitchen, he dragged a small knitted blanket off his sofa. Magdalene had made it for him after taking up the craft as a calming exercise in the years after he returned to her life—his ostensibly Silent mother had carried a lot of guilt for what Binh had done to Canto.

“I ran full background checks,” she’d told him when he was older. “Our family never agrees to such contracts with the cruel or evil. We never send our blood into harm. But I did. I failed you.”

Their relationship would’ve withered if he’d held on to anger and she on to guilt. As it was, she was now one of the stable foundations of his life, and he was glad of the warmth of her blanket around Payal’s body as he moved back outside. He wanted Payal in the fresh air and sunlight. Anchors were too often in darkened rooms, their minds overwhelming all other senses.

Once he’d parked the chair, he moved his free hand to cup her nape, then went into the Substrate, to the location of the construct meant to cover Chandika Das’s zone. He saw the problem at once. The construct had cracked at a critical point, which meant the entire thing was feeding off only Payal.

Canto got to work.

Payal stirred in his arms the instant he completed the final repair. Dropping from the Substrate, he stroked a hand down her back over the top of the knitted blanket.

She snuggled into him, her nose cold when it touched his neck.

Canto cuddled her closer. It came naturally—because it was her. 3K. The girl who’d held his hand with fierce loyalty when he was at his most broken.

There were no walls inside him when it came to her.

She came out of it with a yawn, then froze before her muscles went lax again. “I’m sitting on your lap,” she said, snuggling into him with no sign of discomfort.

“It was the closest chair.”

“I like how you smell.” Eyes heavy-lidded, she slid her arms around him.

He knew something then: she could get whatever she wanted, win every argument, if she spoke to him with that particular affectionate tone in her voice. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, but my legs are still regaining sensation.” Fewer vestiges of drowsiness in her voice—but she didn’t break contact. “Does it hurt you to have me on your lap?”

“No,” he said roughly. Now that he knew she was fine, he was viscerally aware of the softness and warmth of her curves, and of how pretty she smelled. Gritting his teeth against the urge to sniff at her—he was definitely spending too much time around bears—he told her what had happened.

She sat up, cardinal eyes on his. “Thank you.” A solemn statement.

“Don’t thank me. Not for looking after you. You’re mine to care for, mine to hold.” The possessive words just came out, and he wasn’t fucking sorry. “You know it and I know it. It might’ve begun in childhood, but it’s a bigger, stronger, far more powerful thing now.”

Looking away, she moved her fingers over the stitches of the knitted blanket. “This is fine work.”

“Stop trying to change the subject.”

Sparks literally snapped off her. “You’re being needlessly aggravating.” She got up off him—while bracing one hand against the balcony railing.

Canto shifted forward, ready to catch her.

But she soon let go of the railing and stood balanced on heels thin and sharp. As he watched, she bent and picked up the blanket. His gaze went straight to the curvy roundness of her backside.

His hand itched to shape over it.

Skin hot, he tugged his shirt collar away from his neck. He knew what this was, had seen it between Silver and Valentin, Arwen and Pavel. Physical attraction. Strong physical attraction.

And because he was clearly off his head today, he almost gave in and stroked the tempting curve.

Skin privileges, yelled a more rational part of him, are to be given, not taken!

He fisted his hand and, when she rose to her feet, said, “Come here.”

A suspicious frown. “Why?”

“I want to touch you.” Might as well be blunt since he wasn’t exactly sophisticated in this arena. “I want the softness of you on me, and I want your skin under my palms.” Tugging off his gloves, he threw them aside.

HEAT flushed Payal’s face, her own fingers itching to trace the bristled angle of his jawline, the curves of that gruff, growly mouth. Her defenses had already been shaky at best—after waking to find him holding her with such care, they were all but decimated.

It was madness, a sure mistake, but Payal did it anyway. She returned to his lap, his thighs hard under her and his body all angles.

Shuddering, he cupped the side of her neck, squeezed. “Have you decided then, 3K?”

She felt claimed, owned. It should’ve been disturbing—except that she felt the same possessive drive toward him. “It can never work.” But she pressed her hand flat to the heat of his chest, the fine cotton of his shirt doing little to block that raw masculine heat.

His muscled arm around her back, his eyes locked with hers, Canto said, “Never say that to a Mercant. We’re masters at finding the loopholes.” A rough murmur, his breath brushing against her lips, the two of them were so close.